The Woman with the Garden
by bandofthree
Summary: The brief story of an immigrant girl, a boy in seminary, and how they first met. Part 1 of the Travelers Through Space-time series


Merrill hooded a hand across her brow and stared hard through the towering tomato frames, past the sprawling zucchinis, and into the low mist still clinging to the edges of her street. The way the mist retreated up the road reminded her of the way her lace curtains flutter when a breeze steals through the crack beneath her bedroom window. She smiled at the romantic comparison, embarrassed at herself, and admired the end of sunrise. _I have to stop reading so much poetry before bed. Or more of it._

She scanned the crest of the hill at the end of her street and saw nothing. _Hm, but it's early yet._

The light here wasn't at all what she was used to; it woke early, seemed to come in at an altogether different slant than the sun did back home, back in the Dales. It was too crisp, somehow. Eager.

The sun hadn't been up even an hour and she already stood ankle deep in dew-soaked soil. Dirt made dark crescents beneath the whites of her fingernails. Her back dampened with the nascent heat of the day, and she sighed. But no matter how much she'd rather be tucked away under a light quilt sleeping through the morning, weeds needed pulling.

The cracks in the road shone like threaded gold where they'd been patched with sealant. It was her favorite part of the day, these mornings on B St., when lights were just beginning to flicker to life in her neighbors' kitchens and the barks of distant dogs let out to pee echoed for what sounded like miles.

A faint whirring rose from the direction of the hill. Merrill smiled and ducked down behind the broad zucchini leaves, pretending to occupy herself with a particularly tenacious weed. The whirring grew louder until the sound resolved into the swift crush of pebbles and early fallen leaves between rubber and road.

Merrill could just make out the hurried bob and duck of his head as he huffed his ancient Schwinn Collegiate up the incline. His clerical shirt and crisp black plants were sharply pressed, same as always, and his leather messenger back banged against his back in rhythmic thumps as he pumped the pedals.

_Right on time._

She peeked above the brim of the leaf and tried not to stare as he reached the first house at the crest of the hill, then the house next door. Her right hand, resting on the top of the damp soil, found purchase below the surface. She smiled again, marveled at the rich black dirt of this land.

She watched from the corner of her eye as—_oh, there's the weed_. She looked down to loosen it with her trowel.

From the street came a great crash, followed shortly by a startled cry as the man ran into a parked car and flew over the handlebars of his bicycle.

Merrill popped her head from behind the plant and saw the man sprawled half in the street. She jumped over the zucchinis, wove between the tomatoes, and slid down beside him.

"Oh, Creators, oh goodness. Are you alright?" She shook him by the shoulder. She was surprised to find a hard knot of muscle beneath her grip—_Were priests usually this muscly? Focus, Merrill, now's really not the time for a silly head_—and even more surprised to find him smiling a sheepish, radiant grin up at her.

"It's you."

She inhaled sharply. _Elgar'nan!_

"I—pardon?"

He looked at her dreamily, in a haze. "The woman with the garden."

She sat him up and peered into his eyes. A shock of glacier-blue stared back at her. Merrill frowned. _Well, his pupils look normal enough._

"I, uh, I think you may've hit your head."

"Have I? Oh—!"

Merrill stuffed the books he had spilled back into his bag and offered him a hand. "Let's get you out of the street, at least."

He took her hand and stood, then immediately loosened his grip. A crimson blush crept up his neck.

"Is something the matter?" She said as she reached down to right his bicycle.

"I'm, ah, terribly embarrassed. I should probably…" He turned to grab his bike and found her leading it up onto the sidewalk. "Go?"

She walked his bike down the garden path and up onto the porch, where she leaned it against the railing.

"No, no. Sit. Here," she said, handing him her bottle of water. "Sip this. I'll be back in a minute."

She disappeared into the small yellow house.

He settled himself on the stairs and gingerly inspected the water bottle. It was aluminum, he noticed. Practical. But—he turned it all the way around—someone had painted a trail of ladybugs along the side. _Seems a bit childish. Maybe it belongs to a younger sibling?_

The bang of cabinets rang from inside.

He considered the garden that stood in place of her front yard. Everywhere rambling bits of plant life exploded. Morning glories crept over the fence to his left, while flowering jasmine bloomed against the wall to his right. And before him grew mounds and mounds of vegetables. Somehow it looked even more wild on this side of the fence.

"You like it?" She said from behind him, and sat down. "The spinach is bolting. I tried to stop it, but, well, you know how it is. With plants. They've got a mind of their own. So I thought I might as well let it grow and collect the seeds. For next year."

She set her armful of supplies beside her and turned away, flustered. "Ah, I'm rambling. Sorry. I'm a bit crazy about plants, as you can see."

She took the water bottle from him and set it down. "Give me your hand."

"What, why?"

She turned her right palm to him and smiled. A small swipe of blood stained the heel of her hand. "Yours, from when I helped you up. See?" She grabbed his own hand, turned it over. His palms were flecked with blood and small bits of gravel. "You didn't notice?"

His drew his hands away. "I … No, I guess not. I was distracted?"

"It is a lovely garden. Very dis-_stracting_." She stressed the word as she reached for his wrist, brought it into her lap. He trembled slightly.

"Don't worry," she said, and patted his forearm. "I promise it won't hurt. I mean, I'm not a doctor or anything, but…" She glanced up at him and her huge forest eyes caught the sun. "Is it the blood? It's okay, I'm not afraid of blood. Or..?" She trailed off, raised an eyebrow.

"Oh no, it's, uh, never mind." He relaxed his hand. "Thank you."

She pulled a jug from behind her and poured lukewarm water over one hand, then the other, until the bits of gravel were gone and only raw, pink skin remained.

Next she took a small tube of antibiotic ointment and squeezed it onto the head of a cotton swab. She rubbed the ointment over his palms, then pressed a sterile pad onto each before securing them with a bit of medical tape. She ran her thumbs across the pads, making sure they would stay, and he winced.

"I lied," she said, and grinned. "Maybe it hurt a little bit. But you were very brave."

He gave a weak laugh, drew it out into an awkward exhalation that lasted a beat too long.

"I really should go. I'm already late for class as it is, uh— I'm sorry, I realize now I never caught your name."

"Merrill." She gave his fingertips an awkward shake. "And..?"

"Oh!" He brushed her fingers lightly with his thumb. "Sebastian."

"Well met, Sebastian." She tested his name in her mouth, rolled its sounds around with her tongue, and found she liked it very much.

His stomach flipped, watching her form the word.

She drew her fingers away. _Do priests usually have such callused hands?_ A jolt of electricity struck her. "Could I interest you in a tomato?"

"Now?"

"I mean, will you stay for breakfast? If you're already late?"

"Oh."

Oh?

"I would like that very much," he said.


End file.
